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She and her sisters were split—Jolie looked like their mother, Molly looked like their father, and Hannah was a perfect combination of both. Hannah had definitely gotten the better roll of the genetic dice there. Personality-wise, both her sisters were
just
like their mother, though, and if that was the price of beauty in the Richards family, Molly was just fine being the ugly sister.

But Sam’s scrutiny was starting to make her a little nervous. “You don’t look like a Marlene,” Sam finally declared. “A Marley maybe, but not a Marlene.”

While she agreed, she wasn’t sure what Sam meant by that exactly. “Um, thank you?”

“You’re a great Molly, though,” she said with a smile. “Your grandmother gave you the perfect nickname.”

“Thanks.”

Sam wiped her hands on a towel, then walked over to the little counter area Molly used as an office during the day because her real office in the back was both claustrophobic and a disaster of Superfund proportions. “You know, to be honest, I don’t really feel like a Sam
or
a Samantha,” she said.

“What’s your middle name?” It hadn’t been on the paperwork.

“Diane.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m definitely not a Diane. I don’t feel like I’m a Dee or a Di, either.”

“What do you feel like, then?”

Sam thought for a minute. “A Chloe, maybe.” She laughed. “But I don’t see how I could pull that off. Even if I legally changed my name, it’d be too much trouble to get anyone around here to switch.” She laughed. “I’d have to move somewhere else and start from scratch.”

Don’t knock it till you try it, honey.
“Well, the slide from Marley to Molly isn’t that far. Sam to Chloe is a leap.”

Sam shrugged. “I guess I’m stuck with Sam, then.”

“If it makes a difference, I think you make a great Sam.”

“Thanks, Marley.”

Her stomach clenched. “Don’t call me that.” As hard as she tried to keep her voice light and teasing, even she could hear the strain and the snap underneath. “It makes me think of Jacob Marley from
A Christmas Carol
,” she said with a small laugh, trying to smooth it over
.
“I really don’t want ghostly visitations screwing up a good night’s sleep.”

“Especially since you come in so early.”

“Exactly.”

Sam sighed and shrugged her shoulders. “So what can I do now?”

Honestly, there wasn’t much for her to do right now. The few customers currently in the place were fine, and Sam had already straightened and wiped and swept. The girl either had endless energy or was trying to impress in these early days. Molly normally did paperwork during these lulls, but that wasn’t something for Sam to help with—yet. Jane would sometimes knit or do a crossword puzzle when things got really slow, but somehow that felt like the wrong message to send in Sam’s first week on the job.

God knew there were half a dozen things
she
could be doing, but Molly couldn’t leave Sam alone just yet, simply because she might need help with a complicated order. She could show Sam how to do something like take apart and clean the machines, but while that would be helpful for Sam, it would only put Molly further behind today.

“I guess just make sure everything is stocked, check the milk pitchers—”

“I already did.” Sam tapped the folder next to Molly marked “Children’s Fair.” “I could help you with that, if you need me to. Tate told me how Mrs. Kennedy kind of dumped it on you without warning.”

“Thanks, but that wouldn’t be fair to you. It’s not in your job description.”

Sam shrugged. “I don’t mind. I’ve helped with it before. Not in the last few years, admittedly, because I wasn’t here.”

And that, Molly knew, was because she’d moved to Gulfport with her now ex-husband. It wasn’t a topic Sam had broached with her, but it wasn’t exactly a secret, either. She wasn’t going to go there, though. It wasn’t her business, and she didn’t know Sam all that well, but she could still sympathize. At least Sam had realized her mistake quickly and had been able to get out before investing years into a rotten marriage. “Really?”

“Of course. I had to volunteer somewhere, and I like kids.”

“I meant . . . you really wouldn’t mind helping me with this?”

“Oh, sure. I’ve got to do something, ’cause I don’t want to just stand around. I know you’re not paying me to do that. And since I figure I’ll need to be here the day of, at least I can say I did something to help.”

This girl truly is a godsend.
Molly handed her the phone. “I’m trying to touch base with everyone, just to make sure I’ve got them on the right list doing the right thing. For the vendors, I need to make sure the list of what we’re supposed to be providing for them is correct, too.”

“I can do that. No problem.” Sam flipped open the folder.

Without that job hanging over her head, Molly found it much easier to concentrate on her task, getting payroll finished easily and paying bills. She was also half listening to Sam’s side of the conversations—just enough to know that her carefully made lists weren’t
too
wrong.
Yay me.

Sam, it turned out, was a lefty like her brother, and she had that same good posture she’d noticed the other day—no hunching over the papers as she worked. Both Harris siblings were tall and lanky, but both seemed blessed with the natural grace of athletes. Where Sam was built like a runner, with long legs made for jumping hurdles, Tate’s build was definitely like a swimmer’s, powerful but lean . . .

Good Lord.
She had to stop these random Tate thoughts. Frankly, it was starting to freak her out. It didn’t matter how much she’d rationalized it all in her mind. The simple fact was that she’d been just fine for
years
, and then one night, out of nowhere, Tate Harris had helped her into a warm, nice-smelling hoodie, and it flipped her switch. Suddenly she was pondering the breadth of Tate’s shoulders as if she had some kind of reason or right to. And since she couldn’t admire his physique without visualizing how it was achieved, she’d been picturing Tate swimming laps. In small trunks, the water sluicing over his back . . .

She gave herself a hard mental shake. Long-term celibacy was obviously not good for her mental health. Unless, of course, she
wanted
training montages and soft-core porn running through her mind at inopportune and highly inappropriate moments.

Like while you’re training his little sister how to make espressos, maybe?

Yeah, very inappropriate.

And the images just wouldn’t stop. Eventually they would—they
had
to—but until then . . . She shook her
head and went back to the accounts payables in front of her, but the numbers didn’t make any sense anymore. Her focus was shot now, and she knew it would be a little while before she was able to get it back.

“So is Tate driving you crazy?”

Molly jumped at the question, nearly knocking over her cup in the process. “Excuse me?”

Sam indicated the list she was working on. “That’s Tate’s scrawl. I’d recognize it anywhere. If he starts getting all control-freaky on you, just let me know.”

Oh. That.
“He’s been nothing but helpful.”

Sam snorted. “That’s how he sucks you in.”

“I don’t quite understand.”

“My brother wants to be Grand Master of the Universe, butting into everything and telling you how it should be done.”

She recognized sibling irritation and exasperation when she heard it. “I’m sure he means well.”
Unlike
my
sisters.

Sam rolled her eyes. “Of course he
means
well. That doesn’t make it less annoying, though.”

Considering how Tate had already questioned her about Sam working here before she’d even started . . . “You’re his baby sister. Isn’t butting into your life what big brothers do?”

“Maybe. But he gets carried away sometimes with being ‘helpful’”—she included the air quotes—“and crosses right over into ‘won’t leave you alone about it.’ If he starts that crap with you, let me know and I’ll get him to back down before he drives you screaming into the bay.”

“I doubt that will happen. Tate got me sorted out only because I promised I wouldn’t expect him to get more involved.”

“He talks a good game, but once you let him in your
business . . .” Sam sighed and shook her head. “Someone should have warned you that the boy’s got serious control issues.”

She’d never gotten that vibe from Tate, but she could see where Sam could confuse helpful concern with control—they were siblings, after all. But the slightly ominous “someone should have warned you” gave her pause. Tate was certainly active and involved in many things, but control-freaky? Surely Helena would have mentioned that before tossing her into the pot. That said, Tate and Helena bumped heads pretty often, each calling the other nosy and bossy. It was worrisome. She came from a family of control freaks and had married into a family of control freaks, and she knew this would not end well. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said as the door chime went off and she turned around.

Speak of the devil.
Helena waved as she entered and dropped her laptop at her favorite table close to the far wall. Helena liked to work in here; she said there was something very inspiring, yet relaxing, about the atmosphere.

Helena might feel differently after today, though.

Molly hadn’t seen her in the last few days, although that might have been intentional on Helena’s part. Helena had apologized again the day after that debacle via text, but Molly had been so busy getting the fair sorted out and training Sam that she hadn’t had time to respond properly. She intercepted Helena before she got to the counter to order and steered her back toward the table, out of earshot of Sam. Helena’s eyebrows went up. “What’s up?”

“I thought I’d give you the chance to talk me out of poisoning your coffee.”

At least Helena wasn’t one to play dumb. “I’m sorry about the other night at Grannie’s.”

Molly waited. “Because . . .”

“I didn’t mean for your feelings to get hurt.”

That was missing the point entirely. “My feelings didn’t get hurt.”
Much.
“The only thing I felt was humiliated.”

“That certainly wasn’t my intention. And if it makes you feel better, Tate’s chewed me over it quite thoroughly. I will not meddle like that again.”

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart and swear to give up coffee if do.”

Helena took her coffee almost as seriously as Molly did. “I’m going to hold you to that.”

“Tate says he apologized, too. He really didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

“He did apologize. Very sincerely. I’m not sure which one of us was more embarrassed over the whole thing.”

“You’re both overreacting, then.”

So much for contrition. “Careful. You’d hate to get nothing but decaf here in the future.”

Helena shook her head, horror on her face. “You wouldn’t.”

“Don’t tempt me. It might keep you from having the energy to cause trouble.”

“My intentions were good,” she protested. “And I swear I really did think I’d seen some interest there before and was just trying to help it along.”

Huh?
“From Tate?”

“From you, actually.”

Oh my God.
That wasn’t possible, but what was she doing that could be so misread?

Helena shrugged. “But I guess I was wrong. Or I was reading it wrong because I wanted it to be true. Maybe there’s someone
else
you’re interested in?” There was a hopeful, yet obviously prying, note in her voice.

“No.”
I may have answered a little too quickly there.

“At all? Why not? You’ve said yourself that the
singles scene in Magnolia Beach is a little underwhelming, but there are a few decent guys around.” Helena pulled out a chair and motioned for Molly to sit. “I’ve never pried before—”

Molly shook her head at the proffered chair and rested her hands on the back of it instead. This wasn’t cozy-time girl talk, and she wasn’t going to pretend it was. “And I appreciate that very much. It’s one of the reasons I like having you as a friend.”

“Okay, so . . .”

She couldn’t tell Helena the truth, and she didn’t want to lie. That rather left her at not saying anything at all. “Look, we are strong, intelligent women with lives and jobs and interests. Must we fall into the misogynistic stereotype of being consumed solely by the need to find a man?”

Helena’s lips pressed together. “Well, if you’re going to put it like that . . .” She sighed. “I will butt out.”

“Thank you. Now, about manipulating Tate—and me, for that matter—”

“What?” Helena was all innocence.

“Your little dinner party?”

“Oh. That.” Helena shrugged. “You needed help and wouldn’t ask. Tate likes to fix things. Seems less like manipulation and more like helpfully creating a solution, if you ask me.”

“Nice try. First of all, that’s just wrong, and you know it. You should be ashamed of yourself.” Helena, though, didn’t look the least bit ashamed. “And secondly, Sam’s just been telling me Tate’s some kind of control freak once he’s involved in something. What have you gotten me into?”

“You have to consider your source on that. Tate’s just a typical oldest child—and a big brother to boot. He helped raise Sam and Ellie, so he sometimes crosses
the line and gets nosy and bossy, and Sam just chafes against that.”

That was slightly reassuring. But . . . “I’ve heard you say the same thing.”

“Tate’s like a brother to me. Same situation. Mostly, though, he really just wants to help. It’s kind of a thing for him. If you ask me, it’s because of his parents. There was a lot of chaos at his house growing up, and Tate has always been the one to smooth things out—especially for Sam. Think of it more as ‘superhero coming to save the day’ instead of ‘control freak.’”

That struck a nerve unexpectedly. She didn’t want to be saved. It was one thing to ask for some guidance, but she sure as hell didn’t want “saving.” Not now. She wasn’t helpless. “I’m not sure that’s better, you know.”